


What in the Elf?

by WhatLocked



Series: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas! [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas fic, Elf!John, Hat kink?, John just wants to go to sleep, John swears a lot for an elf, M/M, Rosie is there, She is just asleep through it all, Sherlock has so many questions, Sherlock is Speechless, Yes - they have been a long time coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: It has taken seven years for Sherlock to discover that John is, in fact, a Christmas Elf.  Now he just needs to see if he makes John’s Nice List or his Naughty List.Rating may change.  I am as of yet, undecided.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/895518
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	1. The end (Sort of)

**Author's Note:**

> This idea is very loosely based on the theory from the film Rare Exports. A lovely Christmas movie for those of us who like that sort of thing.  
> Also, the legend of Naphanuel is completely made up!   
> Now, with that all said and done, I would like to wish you all happy reading and a Merry Christmas. I hope you all have a wonderful holiday and an awesome new year!  
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlocks mouth opened, closed, opened once more and then closed again. He then moved his jaw as if to open his mouth once more but decided against the decision and instead opted to pull his bottom lip under his top teeth as he tried to parse what he had just seen, into some logical explanation. 

John, on the other hand, resigned himself that at least it had taken this long for Sherlock to find out. That in itself had been an amazing feat. He knew eventually it was going to happen, and honestly, seven (almost eight) years was a pretty good record at keeping something secret from the world’s most observant (and nosey) man.

“You have questions” John stated. 

Sherlock nodded, a sort of squeak of affirmation sounding from his throat.

With a calm sigh, John sat on the chair next to the coffee table, adjusted his belly so his belt didn’t dig in and looked up at the other man, who was still standing in the doorway with his hand hovering, not sure whether to point an accusing finger at John or ball it down by his side in confused frustration.

“Ask away” John said. “I don’t have much time and still have several houses to visit.”

“You just came out of that chimney” Sherlock finally managed to say.

John nodded as he had indeed just entered this house via the chimney.

“And you are dressed as Father Christmas.”

John tilted his head, his facial expressions warring whether to confirm the misconception or to flat out deny it. Sherlock just frowned at him as if daring John to deny what the Consulting Detective could see with his own two eyes. 

John gave in and nodded.

“And” Sherlock continued, his voice a bit firmer and more confident than it had been with the last two questions, although it was still a bit shaky. “And, you are the one who has been stealing Adam Gilbert’s Christmas presents for the past three years and replacing them with coal.” Finally, the hovering hand decided to go with the accusatory point.

John couldn’t deny it. It was true. “Well, to be fair, he is a right cunt of a kid and deserves it.”

Silence filled the room, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantel. 

“Alright” Sherlock finally voiced, walking over and dropping into the chair across from John. “I’m going to need you to start from the beginning, because I am coming up with nothing.”

  
  



	2. The Very Beginning (or, A brief history to set the story)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a very brief (fictional) history lesson here. We will get back to John and Sherlock shortly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Once both men were Comfortable, John started his tale…

~o~

The legend of Father Christmas has been around for centuries. Many attribute his existence to the Monk, Saint Nicholas. In truth, it has nothing to do with the man but the real “Father Christmas” was never too bothered with someone taking his credit, so left it as is. 

The true legend actually starts with a man named Naphanuel who lived in a village, not far from where where Finland now resides, in 605 BC. It was his job to keep track of those who were honest, trustworthy, respectful and peaceful people and those who were utter shits. 

Naphanuel had a small group of people who were responsible for offering rewards to those who did good and punishment for those who did bad. Due to the punishments being barbaric and inhumane, there were not too many who dared put a toe out of line, as Naphanuel had spies everywhere and his word was final. There was no such thing as a trial back in those days. 

During his time in the village, peace was an almost constant state of being. 

After he died, in 526 BC the place fell into chaos. Less people were kind and more were absolute jackarses. Approximately 4 years later, the people of the village, unable to emulate the rule that Naphanuel had over the people, declared him an Angel sent from Heaven and set up offerings of fine mead and the finest sweet pastries for him once a year. (It is just pure coincidence that this time of year happened to also be the date of which a certain child was born, in a manger, a few hundred years later.)

Once the offerings started, the village people noticed that the following morning, treats of exotic foods and spices, knitted gloves and hats had been left for those who had been respectful citizens. 

For those who hadn’t, punishment had been left. The punishment often correlated to how much of a bell-end you had been throughout the year. A lump of coal at the foot of your bed, a reindeer head in your bed ( _ yeah, the Mafia did not come up with that one on their own _ ), kids went missing or there was simple evisceration. 

Once again, over the years, people began being nice to each other again because apparently Naphanuel was back and clearly, he had spies again.

  
  



	3. The Beginning (For John, at least)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quickie to find out how John became an elf.

~~~~~~~~~~

John was an elf. That was the simple answer. 

The more complex answer was that he was one of Naphanuels spies. He had been since he turned 18. It was handed down through the family. The first born male, in every generation was given this blessing ( _ curse may be more apt _ ).

Every year, on Christmas Eve, at around 10:30 pm, John transformed. He grew a long white beard, his ears pointed at the tips ( _ although, he wasn’t sure why _ ), he got fatter and smelled like cinnamon. The exact look that Naphanuel had sported all those centuries ago ( _ except for the fucking ears...why pointed?? _ ). It wasn’t one that John particularly liked to model, but try as he might, he couldn’t fight it. 

He then donned the traditional costume ( _again, modelled on Naphanuel’s preferred get up_ ) that had been given to him, grabbed the list, ( _ compiled by good old Napahnuel himself, wherever the fuck he was these days _ ) and the sack that always seemed to have just what he needed and then he headed out for the night.

John was granted, for one night a year only, the gifts of speed and stealth. He defied all laws of physics and so far there was not a camera or sensor that picked up the likes of him. It was why he could get in and out of houses without tripping any security alarms, such as the house both he and Sherlock were currently sitting in.

Over the years, the tradition changed, To start off with, the adults were forgotten (as they lost interest and belief in Naphanuel) as the practice slowly expanded out, crossing Europe and Asia, only to jump the seas to America, Australia, Africa and all the places in between. More ‘ _ elves _ ’ were being created as generations bloomed and spread out, making it easy to cover the entire world. 

The rewards and punishments also changed. Long gone were the days where children would have been happy with a Satsuma in their stocking. Now they wanted drones and Apple watches and RC cars and the latest Barbie house, which practically cost the same as a bloody deposit for a real house.

While the expectations of the rewards had gone up, the punishments had lessened. No thanks to new laws and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the ‘ _ elves _ ’ could no longer take children or torture or kill anybody. So, a lump of coal it was. 

Which is what John was supposed to be doing that very moment at the home of Adam Gilbert. 

Instead, he was explaining his bizarre heritage to his best friend who was still looking like his brain was about to short circuit.

John knew he wasn't quite finished yet. There was going to be questions.

  
  



	4. Sherlock Has Questions (After all, who wouldn’t?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John answers Sherlock's questions as best as he can.

~~~~~~~~~~

John watched Sherlock slowly and carefully turn the information over in his head. It was rather peculiar watching Sherlock in this state. Sure, he had often observed Sherlock sorting and gathering information, making pieces of the puzzle fit together but that had been where logic prevailed. Here, there was no logic. John figured this must be what everyone looked like to Sherlock. 

Finally, Sherlock spoke. “How do you get into houses? You can’t pick a lock to save your life.”

John rolled his eyes. Of all the questions he could have asked, he focused on the Break & Entering part of it.

“You saw how I come into the houses. You said it yourself. I came in through the chimney.”

Sherlock gave a rather disgruntled look in Johns direction. “Physically impossible. Plus, not all houses have chimneys. So, again, how do you get in?”

John sighed. There was not going to be any way he could explain this that would make sense to Sherlock. Or to anyone for that matter. He was just going to have to give it his best shot.

“I can stretch and shrink my body to fit through tight gaps, such as chimneys and keyholes.” John watched as a familiar spark lit in Sherlock’s eye and before he could say anything, John added “Trust me when I say it is not even a quarter of the fun it sounds. Molecular manipulation is not supposed to be experienced by real human beings for a reason. It’s why you only read about it in comic books. It is horrible. Pure and simple. ”

Oddly enough, Sherlock seems to happily accept that answer and moved straight onto the next question.

“How has it been possible that you have done this every year, since you were eighteen and not a single person noticed you do it. You can’t possibly tell me that no one in the medical field or the army noticed your absence at the same time every single year?”

This question was a bit trickier and at the same time, easier to answer than the last. The simple part was “It just happens that way.” The harder part to explain (which John couldn’t do effectively due to the fact that he didn’t understand himself) was, “For some reason, on the evening of the 24th of December this...curse makes sure I am free.”

“Explain” was Sherlock’s simple reply.

John huffed out a sigh and ran his hand over his face and then tried to do just that. Explain.

“Honestly, I don’t know how it works. It just does. When I was a young man, there were never any parties to go to. When I started work, I was never rostered on. Once I joined the army, I thought I might be lucky enough to get out of it, but somehow, even if I never asked for it, I was given R&R. Not a single person questioned why Watson got every Christmas Eve off. 

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but when I moved into Baker Street, no crimes happened, at least not ones that would have held your interest for very long. Even the Irene Adler debacle ended before 9pm. When Mary …. When I met Mary, she would turn in early for the night on Christmas Eve. It just always worked that way.”

John stopped and looked around the darkened room. The flashing lights on the tree casting odd shadows on the wall and ceiling. For some reason, talking about Mary still left John feeling uncomfortable as a myriad of feelings coursed through his body. It was getting better, but he still needed to take some time to digest it all and thankfully, Sherlock knew to give him those few seconds. John took a deep breath and continued.

“I thought having Rosie, it would be harder but surprisingly it was easy to find a sitter for the night. And of course, Mrs Hudson’s ‘ _ quiet drinks _ ’ ended by 9 and seems I don’t live at Baker Street, it was easy to avoid you asking any questions about where I was heading out.

“What I hadn’t been planning on, was The Gilbert’s hiring you to look into why their bastard of a son was only getting coal for Christmas for the past three years, (his fourth one coming) and you not asking me to come along.”

At this, Sherlock had the gall to look affronted and with a very Mycroft like sniff, stated “I assumed you’d want to spend the night home with Rosie. It is her first Christmas after all.”

John gave a reflective nod of his head. That had actually been quite thoughtful for Sherlock. He was pulled out of his musings by Sherlock’s next question.

“So, you spend all Christmas Eve delivering presents to kids all over the world? Isn’t that Santa’s job?”

“Sherlock, even you should know that it is impossible for one man to travel the world in one night. Plus, haven’t you been listening? There is no Father Christmas, or Santa or whatever you want to call him. There is Naphanuel, who judges everyone and then gets us, me and the many others like me, all over the world, to dish out his rewards or punishments.”

Sherlock thinks this answer over. “So you only service some of the kids?”

John sighed. Trust Sherlock to unintentionally make what he did sound seedy and sordid. “I don’t _ service  _ anyone” John stated. “I go to the homes of anywhere between 200 and 800 kids in a night and leave them something fun, or a black rock.”

“That is a rather large margin.”

“Depends on where I am at the time and how many other elves are in the area. This year, I had 487 children to deliver to. I still have 52 of them left.”

At this Sherlocks eyes finally stopped scrutinising Johns every move and dropped down to the sack at his feet. 

“Your bag is empty.”

John leaned over and picked up his sack. Opening it up, he reached in and pulled out a rather large lump of coal. “Put that under the tree will you and pass me the three gifts at the front.”

Sherlock dutifully followed Johns instructions and sat back down. 

“Why does my sack look empty?” John asked finally answering Sherlock's indirect question. “Who knows. It’s like a fucking Mary Poppins bag.” And just to prove it, he dropped the three presents, two of them quite large, into the bag, which still looked flat and empty after he placed it back down at his feet.

John looked up at Sherlock and was sure that the man was going to go into a melt down. The confusion at the unexplainable logic that must be thundering through the man’s head, was clearly evident on his face.

Sherlock had finally found something that science could not explain.

Unfortunately, John didn’t have time to help him through it all. He had already spent too much time on the Gilbert’s house. It was time for him to move on.


	5. A Brief Interlude (Because John actually thinks he is done with Sherlock for the night)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is so confused but John has work to do.

~~~~~~~~~~  
  


John leaned over and grabbed his sack from the floor once more. Standing up, he looked to Sherlock and noted the unimpressed frown dipping over eyes that had a very far away look in them.

  
Amusement at the situation pushed aside, he really did hate to leave his friend in this state, but he had things to do. Any more answers that Sherlock wanted were going to have to wait until tomorrow.

  
“I know you have more questions” John stated, adjusting his coat and smoothing out the wrinkles, “But is there anything that can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  
Sherlock looked up at John, still clearly confused at the whole situation, ( _John didn’t blame him. He too was still confused at the whole situation_ ), and gave a slow shake of his head.

  
“Good, I need to go, like I said, 52 more kids to go and only three hours until sunrise.” John felt guilty at feeling relieved at being able to go, to be able to leave this awkward situation but his guilt was just going to have to wait. He was almost back at the chimney when Sherlock stopped him, his annoyed tone sounding more normal than it had all night.

  
“And what am I supposed to tell the Gilberts?”

  
John looked over his shoulder at the man and gave a rather unhelpful shrug. “I have no idea. Maybe that if their son wasn’t such a collossal arsehole, I wouldn’t be taking his iPad and giving it to an eight year old girl called Hannah.”

  
Sherlock’s face went from one of annoyed to one of surprise. “You recycle the stolen presents.”

  
“Of course we do. We’re not common thieves, thank you very much.”

  
At those words, a familiar glint came into Sherlock’s eyes and a small grin stole over his mouth. “No, there is nothing common about you, John Watson.”

  
“I know” John replied giving a cheeky smile back accompanied by a wink and then, in a blink of an eye, he was gone, up the chimney, leaving Sherlock not too sure on how to feel about the whole situation.


	6. Sherlock Has More Questions (Because, face it - he’s Sherlock.  He always has questions)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to go to bed.  
> Sherlock wants answers.  
> And what is with the Santa hat?

~~~~~~~~~~

John plodded up the path, rubbing his hand over his once again, hair-free chin. Good, the last few houses were always the worst. There were kids getting up early and in the last ten houses, without fail, were always yappy little dogs that had to be sedated. The last one had actually managed to latch onto John’s ankle first. 

God, he hated this job. He couldn’t have been happier when the sonographer had told Mary and he that they were having a girl. No more fucking curses.

John managed to open his front door quietly and listened. No sound. The babysitter was probably asleep still. He was digging through his pockets, to find his wallet so he could pay the girl when he walked into the living room and stopped dead in his tracks.    
The babysitter wasn’t there.

But Sherlock was.

John groaned. He had hoped to get a couple hours of sleep before Rosie woke up but judging by the very,  _ very _ contemplative look on Sherlock’s face, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Ah, John, good, you’re home” Sherlock stated with false merriment once he noticed John was there. 

“Can’t this wait until later?” John goraned, already knowing the answer.

The rather large, false (terrifying) smile Sherlock shot him and the way he indicated for John to sit on the couch, confirmed that, no, it wasn’t going to wait until later.

“Let me guess, you have more questions” John mumbled, a pitiful attempt at sarcasm.

Sherlock didn’t take any notice of John’s reluctance to want to do this and jumped straight in.

“Why no reindeer?”

John was momentarily speechless. Was this man, Sherlock Holmes, man or science and logic and reason, actually asking why John didn’t have any fucking flying reindeer?

John reminded himself that he wasn’t the only one who had had a bit of a shit night and took a steadying breath before answering.

“There never was reindeer” he said. “That rumour sort of came along with St Nick and sort of stayed.”

“Why?”

John really didn’t want to deal with this.  _ He really didn’t _ . “I don’t know. Because it makes for a good song?”

Sherlock frowned at John’s non-answer and continued.

“How often are you discovered?”

This one seemed more reasonable coming from the man next to him and John found himself not minding the question.

“More than we would like but we have a sort of fairy dust that puts people to sleep, leaving the last images of what they saw quite vague and dreamlike.”

“So you roofie them?”

A desperate moan tried to make itself known in the back of John’s throat. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation and to be honest, John didn’t know what was in the drug, so answered with “Yes, but without the unconsented sex at the end.”

Sherlock ignored John’s sarcasm and threw a studying glare at the man. After a few seconds, he asked “You’ve never used that on me, have you?”

At this, John huffed out a half-hearted chuckle. “Would serve you bloody right if I did, but no. Our supply disappears, with everything else after tonight.”

“To where?”

John shrugged. “No fucking Idea. Never cared enough to find out.” Thankfully, Sherlock let this drop. John didn’t like explaining that he only did what he had to because he had no choice. He hated every second of it. His father and great uncle had loved the job. Harriet could never understand why John didn’t enjoy it. It was everybody’s dream job to be Father Christmas, as a kid. John was pulled out of his miserable musings by Sherlocks next question.

“Why did I never get any coal? I was horrid as a child?”

“Only as a child?” John asked, an eyebrow rising in disbelief at Sherlocks statement. Sherlock waved it away. “ Being mean to your brother and general mischievousness does not count as being bad. It’s called being a kid.”

“I remember my cousin got coal one year, when I was 7. Aunty Karen blamed Mycroft and myself for swapping his presents out with the coal. Was that your doing?”

“I doubt it” John replied, settling back in the armchair, a memory of only a few months surfacing. “I was 11 years old. One of us, more than likely, though. But if it was the cousin I met at your parents earlier this year, that little bastard needed more than fucking coal in his stocking.”

A smug grin stole over Sherlock’s lips, followed by a thoughtful pout. “Do all elves swear so much?”

Again, John shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t know. The only ones I ever met were my Dad and my Great Uncle and both of them grew up in Scotland, so they swore more than me. It’s not like we have annual meetings or work parties.” John shivered at the thought. God, what would that be like?

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, a rather excited look on his face and John forgot all about elf gatherings. “Can we break into Mycroft’s house and steal his umbrellas and move his furniture by 4.7 milimetres?”

John would have rolled his eyes, but to be fair, he had thought similar things since meeting the elder Holmes, himself. “I can, but you can’t. Also, I’ve changed back. It will have to wait until next year.”

Sherlock nodded, no doubt storing that promise somewhere in his mind palace, to come out in 12 months time. God, he was probably going to concoct some elaborate plan that would make his brother truly miserable and would hold John to it. John decided that he would have to deal with that particular problem for next year. For now, he was trying to decipher the look on Sherlock’s face. It looked like trouble, but almost as if he wasn’t aware he was doing it. 

“If you made the lists, for adults, would I be on the nice or naughty list.”

“Definitely the nice,” John replied out loud but thought to himself, ‘ _ But I’d be happy to put you on my personal naughty list _ .’ 

One look at Sherlock’s face, one of smug surprise (yes, it exists but only a Holmes can pull it off) sent alarm bells ringing in John’s head. “Shit, did I just say that out loud?”

The smug grin to match the smug look, pulled at Sherlock’s mouth. “Yes John, you did.” 

“Fuck.”

If his accidental admission had left John mortified, Sherlock’s next words left him absolutely gobsmacked.

Standing up and looking down at John, he said “If you are offering, gladly.”

John blinked up at the man several times before he remembered how his mouth worked. “What? Really?”

“Only if you have the hat on” Sherlock stated, his head nodding towards the red felt Santa hat that someone had given to Rosie, now currently lying on a side table. John was too busy trying to parse this bizarre, and extremely fortunate situation to notice that Sherlock was halfway up the hall.

“Better hurry up, John” he called, snapping John’s attention back into the now. 

Quickly, John got up and made his way to follow Sherlock, his hand snatching up the hat on the way, the little bill jingling as hurried along to Sherlock.

  
  



	7. The Actual End Which is Also a Beginning (And a very merry Christmas to all)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-coital feels.  
> Merry Christmas everyone. I hope you have a wonderful day!

~~~~~~~~~~

John stared up at the ceiling, his heart rate slowly settling down. Judging by the breathing coming from the man next to him, he too was still calming down. Not that he was complaining (far from it, in fact) but this was not how he had expected this night (or any night) to end.

“Well, that was unexpected” he finally said, into the darkness of the room. Neither of them had managed to switch on the lamp in their haste to get undressed and tumble into bed. Maybe next time. Next time, they could take their time. Next time…

“ _ That _ was unexpected?” came the indignant reply from next to him. John turned his head to see Sherlock staring at him in the dark, his eyes boring into John’s, indicating just how absurd he thought John’s statement was. 

“No, John,  _ that _ was not unexpected. We have been dancing around  _ that _ for years. But I was too busy playing sociopath and you were too busy playing not-gay that neither of us did anything about it.  _ That _ was very expected and long overdue.” John couldn’t argue that. Sherlock continued. “What was unexpected was finding out that you periodically break into people’s houses and have done so for nearly 30 years and have never been caught. Now,  _ that _ was unexpected.”

John turned his head and looked back up at the ceiling. He turned Sherlock’s words over in his head and then suddenly started laughing. It only took a few seconds for Sherlock to join in.

“Good, we are ridiculous” John gasped as they finally quietened down again.

“Indeed” Sherlock replied, sounding far more content than he had ever heard him sound. This had been the right move. 

Together they lay like that, pressed up next to each other, blankets draped across them from waist to knee, bodily fluids drying on their skin, the hat that Sherlock had been adamant John wear was now hanging off of his foot (no one knew how or why) which was hanging over the edge of the bed. Neither man moved as they watched the room lighten as the sun rose. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock” John said, his hand inching over and wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s.

Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers in response. “Merry Christmas, John.”

  
  



End file.
